


When the Curtain Falls

by Toakenshire



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: "European" Middle Earth, (because line of Durin duuuh), Bilbo Baggins is a Composer, Classical Music, Family Drama, I may have been inspired by some elements from Mozart's life, M/M, Music, Music AU, Political stuff, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toakenshire/pseuds/Toakenshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has always been known that becoming a respected musician is all but an easy task. Holding on to his secure position as appointed composer of the Court of Bree is all that matters to Master Bilbo Baggins… until the widely known philosopher Gandalf Grey suddenly reappears into his very much uneventful life and decides to reawaken an old Tookish taste for boldness. Nothing seems certain anymore as Bilbo finds himself a new and quite unexpected position at the Court of the King of Erebor. But amid artistic turmoil and political schemes, Bilbo might just rediscover the power of music and gain a few other things along the way…</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Curtain Falls

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I would like to thank my friend and awesome beta [Jaro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jar_o_mirth/pseuds/Jaro) for his infinitely precious remarks and suggestions but also for his even more precious encouragements!
> 
> In the same line of thought, let me thank my other friend [Claire](http://ineffablemess.tumblr.com), for her constant enthusiasm and support and her two awesome fan arts for my version of Bilbo [here](http://ineffablemess.tumblr.com/post/120655731310/commission-for-caro-a-bilbo-playing-the-violin) and [here](http://ineffablemess.tumblr.com/post/121061626240/second-commission-for-caro-its-great-fun-to).
> 
> This is my first piece of serious writing in 5 years, and also my first contribution to the Hobbit fandom. Oh, wait a minute, this is also my _first_ >2k work... And my _first_ work in English. That is a lot of _firsts_.  
>  This fic represents a true challenge for me, since I've never worked on such a complex and long story before, but I am willing to see it through. It started as a silly idea while listening to my favorite French musical on the bus ( _Mozart L'Opéra Rock_ , check it out! It is one of the best things my country has produced over the last decade!), and it grew on me so swiftly that I just had to grab my notebook and write down all the random ideas going through my mind. What was supposed to be a personal idea for an AU never to be made concrete turned into world-building (what is it? An alternate "European" Middle Earth? An _alternate_ 18th century?) and, eventually, into a story.  
>  I am both terrified and excited about publishing this work at last (I'll tell you when I know what I'm doing), but here we go! 
> 
> I hope you will appreciate the journey.
> 
> Reviews, remarks and chocolate will always be appreciated!

Fate had a strange way to deal with punctual people. Most of the time, it would let them pursue their very much ordinary and carefully scheduled routine without daring any intervention that would have prevented them from doing so by the occurrence of an unexpected and very much unwanted delay.

Most of the time.

For there would always be this occasion, this precise moment in one’s life when fate would meddle and decide that it was high time that this particularly punctual individual should pay his fee for having been allowed to avoid the fatality of being late for so long. And this occasion would usually occur at the most inappropriate time. Of course it would.

_I am never letting Frodo come near my desk again. At least not until he is old enough to understand that misplacing a composer’s sheet music the day before a very important and formal concert where said score is supposed to be played is definitely not a thing to do._

But wasn’t his “nephew” already old enough to understand this? He should probably have a word with Primula about that. If he ever came out alive from the Palace, that is. The first difficulty to achieve this goal being first to reach the ballroom without breaking his neck as he rushed through the corridors, nearly slipping at every turn on the waxed wooden floor. The second difficulty being... Well, his employer himself.

_Oh, His Holiness loves me so much, anyway..._

At least, he could be glad his life choices did not include the habit of wearing a wig, unlike most of his contemporaries. True, his hair would be a terrible mess when he finally reached the reception, but he was positive that he would not look as ridiculous as he would have, had he ever worn such a thing. Not that most people in the room would agree with him... but at least his amour-propre would be safe and sound.

It was with relief that he finally took the last bend and reached the high doors he should have passed at least thirty minutes earlier. Panting and definitely not in a state one would judge proper for such an occasion, he had to bend over and press his palms to his knees to recover his breath, his precious sheets stuck between his right arm and his chest. One of the two guards standing on watch raised an eyebrow at him; Bilbo reciprocated when he was composed enough to look up with a semblance of dignity. Stress and pressure tended to make him impertinent.

When his lungs were at last functioning to their full potential again, he straightened his back, readjusted his collar, tucked a flyaway strand of chestnut hair behind his ear — hoping with a fool’s optimism that his other curls would have the wisdom to restrain their own vitality — and put up a dignified yet amiable expression before addressing the guards:

“I believe my services are required by the Archduke.”

“So they are,” replied the guard who had previously displayed a perfect control of his own eyebrows. An awkward pause ensued. “You are late.”

Well, that tone was definitely _not_ amiable.

“So I am.”

The judgmental eyebrow moved again. The next second, the doors finally opened, much too loudly to Bilbo’s taste. He had always favoured discreet entrances — and exits — ever since his childhood days, which had proved very helpful in the past when his appetite for his mother’s occasional pastries had been too strong to resist. It had also helped him on many occasions when the Archduke had been looking for a victim among his _servants_ to satisfy his very characteristical bursts of temper. But this time, it would be impossible to cloak himself with discretion. The numerous powdered faces now staring at him were the proof he needed. They weighed on him like storms clouds weighed on a desolate land. Fortunately, his employer was nowhere to be seen.

_For now._

If his attempt at discretion had ended up a complete failure, he was now striving for the best alternative: reaching the musicians — who were sitting awkwardly on their chairs, waiting with near desperation for their conductor — as fast and as swiftly as he could, in the hope that he would manage to avoid eye contact with the Archduke, at least until they finished the task for which they were so poorly paid. In that, he succeeded.

When he finally got to the _sinfonietta_ posted in the far right corner of the room, he about threw the sheet music into the bassoonist’s face in his clumsy haste.

“Apologies.”

The young musician nodded self-consciously, his big shifty eyes barely daring to look at him. The score Bilbo had spent all morning looking for was for him. Bilbo had indeed decided, during their last rehearsal on the previous day, to make last-minute adjustments to his part, in agreement with him, hence the need for a new sheet music.

Hence his conductor’s lateness.

Since Bilbo had first met him, he had sensed in the musician a quick mind, and a prompt understanding of people at first sight. No doubt Bilbo’s present appearance and unrest had triggered his natural perspicacity: the young man looked quite miserable under his white powdered wig.

Bilbo nodded back to him, adding a reassuring smile. There was no need for another troubled mind in this court.

“Do not worry. It’s my entire fault. I mislaid it. Don’t trouble yourself with this. Will you be alright with the score?”

“Y— Yes, Master Baggins. Thank you.”

The bassoonist timidly smiled back at him, but his uneasiness was still perceptible. He was probably feeling sorrier for his conductor than for himself, since the latter was more likely to have his skin exposed to the wrath and contempt of the Archduke. But Bilbo was used to it. He could deal with it.

“Good. Now, gentlemen, let us not have our audience wait any longer. Shall we?”

And as he took a last gulp of air before raising his baton to invite his musicians to tune their instruments, he thought he felt the burning stare of the Archduke on the nape of his neck. He did not turn around to check.

 

 -

 

“I must confess I am astonished.”

Bilbo took care to raise his head _very slowly_ , with as much deference as possible. Archduke Collorane was standing three feet away from him, his small court of earls and barons circling him like the rampart of some impregnable fortress. From where he was standing, Bilbo could tell his employer’s eyes were as cold as ice.

Even though he was not looking at him.

His attention seemed to be fully required by some register one of his faithful aristocrats was eager to have him examine.

“Your Holiness?”

The noblemen were looking at him like children would look at a crawling insect: some with almost scientific curiosity, others with pure and hardly concealed disgust. Collorane, for his part, did not avert his gaze from the manuscript.

“After three years, I had eventually come to the conclusion that there was no more insult you could heap upon my person. But once again, you prove to be an inexhaustible fount of unpleasant surprises, Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo felt as if a cold and merciless hand had clasped his neck. The situation was far worse than what he had expected.

“Your Holiness, I know I have no excuse,” he said too hastily, “but if you would allow me—”

“We seem to agree in one respect, then. You have no excuse, indeed.”

Had he asked a valet to bring him his ceremonial cloak, he would not have pronounced this last sentence differently. Bilbo did his best to maintain his dignified stillness, but his eyes could not help scanning the red-walled room. Its velvet curtains and hanging golden ropes mirrored Collorane’s clothing, and Bilbo was unable to supress this sensation of losing his footing in a place that seemed far too big for him. The silence that followed weighed heavily upon his chest. His eyes settled back on the Archduke, who was now engaged in a low-voiced conversation with the noble guest standing at his right side, completely ignoring him. Bilbo’s next thought almost got a strangled noise out of his throat.

_This is my last day as the Official Composer of Bree._

He waited for the Archduke to drop the news on him at any second. The announcement of his dismissal and official return to a life of uncertainty and to the tiring search for his true place in the musical world.

He waited for Collorane to finally _look at him_ in the eye and _order him_ to get out of his sight.

But the Archduke had lost interest in him. In fact, Bilbo doubted he had ever acknowledged his existence. He had never shown any inclination for music, after all. Bilbo would never forget the dawning realisation that had crept on him and that he had endeavoured so firmly to repress during his first days at the Court of Bree: the fact that his employer had nothing but disdain for arts and for those who thrived on them. As hard as he had tried, he had never suppressed from his memory the image of the Archduke sneering at the young talents who had at long last joined the city’s orchestra after years of practise and trials and who had looked at their ruler in hope to please him and to be rewarded with the slightest token of appreciation. What Bilbo had seen in Collorane’s eyes at that moment had only been an alteration between condescension and — _the worst thing for a musician_ — utter indifference.

The same scene seemed to take place once again, but this time, he was standing alone in front of this pit of coldness. And he was losing his job, and probably his reputation as a respectable composer along with it. Collorane may only have been the Archduke of the Principality of Bree, but he could wield a lot of influence. The minute Bilbo stepped out of this room, he would have to consider and deal with the very real possibility of never getting the chance to ever accede to an important position in a court of Eriador again. Any other employer would have looked his official composer in the eyes before sealing such a fate.

Collorane did not.

Bilbo did not know how long it took him before he realized that waiting here for a shred of respect that would never come was pointless. After three years of loyal services, he was dismissed in the most detached indifference. It took him at least ten seconds to realise that his legs had slowly but mechanically carried him to the door. His hand was already on the golden knob when the high-pitched and rasping voice he had come to know so well rose again:

“Baggins, I expect your next _composition_ ” — this last word seemed to have left a bitter taste in his mouth — “to be... _adequate_ to the ways of this court.”

Bilbo froze on the spot.

“I certainly do not expect much of it, but for some unfathomable reason, some people here appear to appreciate your work. In any case, you know what you have to do as far as _we_ are concerned.”

Bilbo sensed he was on the verge of saying something that he might regret. He was not sure of what he felt in this instant, but it was not fear, and it was undoubtedly burning his throat.

Carefully, he released the knob and turned to look at the Archduke... who was heading towards one of the windows, the old manuscript still in his hand.

“You mean I am not dismissed?” Bilbo finally asked.

“Certainly not.”

“But you do not like my music, nor myself.”

It was not a question, but an assessment. A certainty that was known by both of them and yet that Bilbo had never dared to state publically. The fire in his throat had diminished a little after this bold move, as if soothed by this sudden outsourcing of contained frustration. Collorane still obstinately refused to look at him.

“Indeed, I do not.”

_There we are, then._

“And yet you refuse to dismiss me from my post. May I ask why?”

_And will you finally give me the minimal amount of respect I deserve and look at me when you answer me?_

The answer snapped like a whiplash.

“Because I am never prone to satisfying the whims of a servant, especially not an undeserving one.”

_A servant._

Bilbo felt sick to his stomach.

“You may leave now.”

Bilbo’s hand was already on the handle. He did not bow again.

He knew any other person in his position should have only experienced relief and satisfaction after having come so close to lose their job. He knew he ought to feel this way. But Bilbo could now acutely identify the fire in his throat, and it was certainly not coming from alleviation or even from the remnants of anxiety and fear. It was the anger that settled in every muscle of the body after the burning experience of humiliation.

 

 -

 

Bilbo walked calmly out of the Palace, but his jaw was tightened. His steps should have led him to the main street to go home, but instead he found himself wandering in the gardens until he finally found a bench. He slumped down on it, letting out a sigh, as he had already done so many times during the last three years.

_This will not do._

He knew perfectly well that music was and would always be a matter of both harmony and discord between people, but never had he experienced such strained relationship with a patron, not even when he was younger, during his journey on the Continent, even though cultural differences were usually perceived as the major obstacle for a musician willing to spread his art to other countries.

But nothing so far had amounted to Collorane’s scorn, except perhaps Collorane’s hatred for Bilbo himself. Although both of them had been born and raised in Eriador, they were like oil and water, and not only when it came to musical and, more generally, artistic taste. While Bilbo tried to always be amiable with people he encountered, the Archduke produced an almost constant air of self-attributed and indisputable authority — challenging anyone to even dare to contest it — in the most passive and yet hostile manner. While Bilbo was a little smaller than most men his age, Collorane was towering over most of them, which for him was probably a sign that his tendency to look up and down his subjects and servants was justified by Nature herself.

_A servant, indeed!_

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek. It was a thing to unconsciously know he was considered as such. It was another to hear it phrased out loud, in public, as if, in the natural order of things, he were nothing more but a mere decorative object whose owner and master could not help looking at with clear disgust without being able to get rid of it, like an old but traditional tapestry.

Well. Collorane could _absolutely_ get rid of him, there was no doubt about that. He was under no obligation to keep him, whether culturally or politically speaking. There may have been a few distinguished people within the Court of Bree who liked his music, but Collorane was most certainly able to live and rule without their approval in these matters, since music was the least of his concerns and, by extension, of his court’s.

For three years, Bilbo had tried to conceal this inner voice telling him that Collorane was merely using him for the pure sadistic purpose of enjoying of his own power over other human beings. With each passing day, it was getting harder and harder not to see things that way.

Bilbo sighed once again. He just wanted to write his own music, to perform it, to perfect it. Above all, he wanted people to see it as a language of its own. He was not naive enough to think everyone would appreciate his own _musical principles_ , and he knew now there was no point in trying to charm Collorane, of all people.

It should not have mattered that much. But Bilbo was beginning to understand that what should have been a mere artistic disagreement was actually trapping him in a fossilized and closed environment which was oblivious to the world of immeasurable energy and ever-changing life that was surrounding it. Trying to live off music in such a milieu was like shouting at a wall in hope that it would collapse. And yet, Bilbo knew very well that he had no other alternative. If he was to thrive in Eriador, Bree was and had always been his best option. Could he really ask more than that?

It was at that precise moment that a shadow, looming over his defeated frame, interrupted his train of thought.

“Well, well, well. Master Bilbo Baggins.”

With his silhouette blocking the light of the sun, the stranger’s face remained hidden from Bilbo’s sight as he looked up.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?” was his automatic response.

“That remains to be seen,” was the immediate answer.

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed at this unusual reply before recognition dawned on him.

“Mister Gandalf Grey?”

“Himself, my young friend.”

Gandalf smiled cordially at him, evidently pleased to have been recognized. Bilbo gaped at him before remembering himself. He sprang to his feet and shook Gandalf’s hand, now laughing heartily.

“Good gracious, Mister Grey. It has been such a long time!”

“Indeed, it has, my dear fellow. Such a long time you now call me “Mister Grey” instead of using my first name,” Gandalf answered in the teasing tone that Bilbo remembered very well.

“Well... The last time we met, I was a young and carefree musician.”

“You are still young, and still a musician, if I might.”

They both shared another quick laugh.

“You are right, though I can say I do have now some respectability.”

“It seems you do, indeed,” said Gandalf, his grey eyes looking at Bilbo in a very puzzling manner. His inquisitive gazes were another thing Bilbo vividly recalled.

“So, tell me, what brings you to Bree? I thought you were still... wandering on the Continent.”

“Well, as you put it yourself, I am _wandering_ ,” he answered, a bit too enigmatically to Bilbo’s taste. Some things never change. Bilbo wondered if that kind of attitude was common to all the “enlightened philosophers”, as they were called.

“And my wandering has brought me to Eriador. It is true I mostly dwell in kingdoms beyond the sea, but as you may know, I receive an extensive amount of correspondence from many countries, including Eriador. Some people here seemed to require my advices and _services_ , and given that I had not set foot on this island for a very long time, I was happy to oblige them. I am now planning to go back to the Continent in a few days, but before that, I thought I should pay a visit to Belladona Baggins’s promising son. I of course heard you were now the court musician of Bree, and so here I am.”

As usual, Gandalf appeared to know a great deal of things — if not everything — about everyone, including practically insignificant composers. But then again, he had been a long-time friend of his mother’s, and Bilbo had seen him visiting them often during his childhood and adolescence. And he had travelled with them for some time when he and his mother went on their short journey for his first and last continental tour.

“Well in any case, I am glad to meet you again. Would you like to come over my house? I recall you have a predisposition for tea.”

“Your memory serves you well, my dear Bilbo, but I’m afraid I am expected somewhere else. But perhaps tomorrow afternoon? If it is convenient for you, of course. I would not want to intrude on you.”

“You would not, I assure you. I would be delighted. As my mother said, there is always a place for you in the Baggins home. Primula and Frodo would also be glad to see you.”

“Oh, your cousins are here, then?”

“Yes, they have stayed with me for two weeks and they are leaving in two days. I remember you made a great impression on Frodo when you two met.”

Gandalf smiled fondly at the memory of Bilbo’s young “nephew”, as they all liked to consider him.

“I may not be the best judge of that, but he was only one year old at the time, so I assume we could acknowledge this as a fact.”

Bilbo had to repress a chuckle. It _was_ a fact. Gandalf was one of the most benignant souls Bilbo had ever encountered, but he _was_ kind of imposing: a six-foot-tall figure, and always clad in dark shades of colour. And he never departed from his long-locked powdered wig, about which he seemed to care deeply. Surprisingly enough, he had always supported Bilbo’s decision not to wear one.

“So I venture to say he is now... seven years old?”

“Six years old, actually.”

It _had_ been a long time, indeed.

“And look at you now. Official Composer of Bree. You finally obtained a very valuable position, did you not?”

His tone was casual, but his eyes narrowed slightly, which gave Bilbo the unpleasant impression that Gandalf already had his own opinion about the answer, no matter what he would say.

“Yes, indeed. I have the honour to play and compose for the Archduke.”

“The honour, but not the pleasure?”

Why did Bilbo have the curious sensation that he had no control over what was coming in this conversation? The more it progressed, the more he felt that his interlocutor was heading towards a very particular point which he could not fathom. He had experienced this feeling before. He was not sure he liked it.

“These are your words, not mine.”

“You speak the truth, but I hope you will forgive me for having noticed during the concert that the two of you did not seem to nurture the most harmonious of relationships. At least, not on the Archduke’s part.”

“Oh. You were there.”

_As if my embarrassment had not been overwhelming enough today._

“Indeed I was, I could hardly miss one of your performances once I was in Bree. Allow me to congratulate you for your conducting skills and to praise you for your talent, despite your... unfortunate lateness. Your music is as spirited as I remember it. I’ve always known there was a unique originality in you.”

Bilbo felt heat spread in his cheeks.

“Why, Mister Grey,” — Gandalf’s eyebrows arched at Bilbo’s calling him by his last name again — “thank you very much. I am not used to hear such compliments here, I daresay.”

Gandalf’s eyes suddenly twinkled in a triumphant glimmer.

“Is that so? I would like to say I am surprised to hear that, but unfortunately, I am not. I do have some knowledge about how things go in Collorane’s court.”

 _“Is there actually a thing you do not know?” is the real question,_ thought Bilbo, who was not feeling comfortable about him being read by Gandalf with such easiness.

“Well, to be honest with you, I do not presume that working in any other court can be much different. The ruler orders and the musician executes.” _Like any ordinary servant._

Gandalf suddenly chuckled, as if he had reached a very personal goal with much more facility than what could have been originally anticipated.

“Well, if you will allow me to be honest with _you_ , I think I do know a court which may treat its official composer differently. At least, certainly not the manner in which _Collorane_ treats you.”

Bilbo laughed, but it was a mirthless sound.

“Oh. I guess we are talking about a very lucky composer, then,” he said with a smile which he knew probably looked quite artificial.

“Actually, he does not exist, for the simple reason that the kingdom I have in mind does not have its own court musician. Yet.”

“How interesting.”

Bilbo was unquestionably feeling anxious at this point, and Gandalf’s mischievous smile would not arrange his situation. He crossed his arms in a poor attempt to chase that discomfort away. A short awkward pause followed.

“What are you telling me here, Mister Grey?” Bilbo asked, more bluntly than he had intended. “Forgive me, but I do have the feeling you are not being exactly plain with me.”

“Ah, no, it is I who must ask for your forgiveness. I am sorry,” replied Gandalf, who did not appeared sorry in the least, “I am afraid this is a sad propensity of mine. Since you have expressed the need for it, I will be more explicit: I happened a few months ago to sojourn in Erebor. Are you acquainted with this kingdom and its culture?”

“I cannot say I do, except with a superficial knowledge of its former glory on the musical stage. I did not... have the chance to go so deep into the Continent, seven years ago.”

“What a shame,” resumed Gandalf with the voice of someone determined to have his interlocutor listen with utmost care, all in their best interest. However, Bilbo was not certain _his_ interest was the one at stake here.

“Well, I dare hope that you know at least about the major events and developments of its recent history?”

Among his numerous gifts, Gandalf had the more than often vexatious talent to turn his conversation partners into extemporaneous students waiting for their professor to finally deliver the long-awaited portion of knowledge that then seemed to have become essential in the pursuit of their existence.

Bilbo was a naturally curious soul, thank heavens for that. This inherent trait was probably one of the core reasons of his amity with the old philosopher. But at this precise moment, he knew that the purpose of Gandalf’s insinuating questions was everything but didactic.

“Well, I do know that the war with the Gâshuzg Empire ended four years ago, which also coincides with the crowning of the current king.”

Gandalf appeared to be satisfied enough with this answer.

“You are quite correct, my dear fellow. You perhaps know as well that Erebor underwent a partition at the outcome of the war. The loss of the Province of Arken was a considerable blow to Erebor’s power, on both internal and external planes. I will spare you the most trying political details” — Bilbo raised an eyebrow, a sign of impudence he knew Gandalf would not hold against him — “but unfortunately for the kingdom, it is no secret on the Continent that Erebor has lost a great deal of its influence after Emperor Smaug Kulkodart’s overwhelming victory. To put it plainly, Erebor, although still a great nation, is suffering from the Gâshuzg Empire’s ever-growing supremacy, on more levels that you could imagine, even long after the proclamation of peace.”

Gandalf’s tone had progressively become grim, which made Bilbo feel even more remote from this entire matter than he did a few minutes before. He knew, however, that Gandalf would, _eventually_ , come to the point.

“So,” the philosopher continued on a much more trivial tone, “after having coped with the most urgent concerns such as economic and political reconstruction over the last few years, it soon appeared to _some people_ that Erebor has also fallen behind _culturally_ speaking. Which is where you come in, Master Baggins.”

“Where I— I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I am sure you know a great deal more than I do about Erebor’s past influence over the musical world.”

“Indeed, I do, but—”

“Unfortunately, _past_ is the key word here. It has been considered that it was high time to turn it back into _present_.”

“Please, Mister Grey—”

“So are you interested?”

“Interested in what?”

Bilbo knew what. He was only trying to cope with the absurdity of this one-sided conversation. That of Gandalf _actually_ asking him if he were interested in...

“Why, becoming the Official Composer of the Royal Court of Erebor, my young friend!”

Had Gandalf asked him to embark on a quest to slay a fire-breathing dragon, Bilbo would not have looked less astounded.

“Me, Official Composer in Erebor? Gand— I mean, Mister Grey, surely you are not being serious!”

“On the contrary, this is a very serious proposition.”

“Mister Grey, I already have employment.”

“Of which we both know you are _immensely_ satisfied,” Gandalf instantly replied, the irony of his words readable on every wrinkle of his face.

“This is not a simple matter of satisfaction.”

“I am afraid I do not follow you here. This is a highly valuable position.”

“I am terribly sorry, Mister Grey, but—”

The tall man ignored him and went on:

“A country and a capital with such a rich history and a propensity to musical arts. Really, who could refuse?”

“But, Mister Grey—”

“And I remember a young and unstoppable musician whose only dream was to travel the world to refine his talent—”

“Gandalf!”

His cascade of words ceased right away.

As a symptom of his need for respite, Bilbo raised his hands and breathed a heavy sigh.

“Forgive me. I am deeply flattered that you should think of me for such a post, but I cannot accept it.”

Gandalf, who could not act as if he had not heard Bilbo’s protestations anymore, let annoyance perspire through his next words:

“Now, my young friend, would you allow me to ask you why you would even reject such an offer?”

“Because it’s ridiculous!”

It was. It was the most ridiculous idea. Bilbo had already risked a journey beyond the Channel Sea and through the kingdoms of the Continent. It had provided him nothing but disappointment and sorrow. It had struck him violently in the midst of his young ignorance and optimism, but he had eventually come to terms with the idea that this life was not meant for him.

“The only ridiculousness here is that of which I am made witness right now,” said Gandalf as he frowned. “We both know how much you love music, Bilbo Baggins. And we both know that a good and ambitious musician has to explore other countries one day or another. What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not _afraid_ , Gandalf. It is not a matter of fear. It may have been so some years ago, but it is different now. It is a matter of self-awareness.”

_To use one of these words you have a fondness for._

“I belong in Eriador,” declared Bilbo as a conclusion he hoped would be indisputable.

Gandalf Grey stood mute for what seemed like an age, as if he were reassessing some philosophical dogma that had suddenly been put into question. His eyes were observing him in a curious blend of fondness and disappointment. Bilbo did not know if he should feel guilty or angry. _Please, do not look at me like that._

“Of course I cannot express how thankful and flattered I am to know you thought of me for this employment, and I hope you will not doubt the sincerity of my words. But you have come to the wrong musician.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Gandalf for the second time in a low voice, as though he were talking to himself rather than to Bilbo. “You see, I am convinced, and not only based on intellectual reasons but also from the bottom of my heart, that Erebor would be very good for you.”

Bilbo smiled politely, resisting the urge to shake his head. It was, of course, typical of Gandalf. Never giving up when he thought he was right.

“Oh, I can see you doubt me, but hear me out. Of all continental kingdoms, Erebor is undoubtedly the most suited to your skills and vision. Many may tell you the opposite, but I have been travelling for a long time, and I have acquired some knowledge of the different ways of life of many people. Erebor has always been a place where traditions and novelty are judged as equally important, and if some have forgotten this, I humbly think it is high time for someone to remind them.”

“You are granting me more credit than I deserve. I am only a composer from the Baggins family.”

“But your mother’s Took blood also runs through your veins.”

Bilbo felt a knot of regret and nostalgia tying in his throat.

“I pray you not to think I am telling you this for the sole purpose of tormenting you. I am only willing to make you see that there is more to aspire to after a fall. Your mother knew that, God rests her soul.”

Bilbo could try to fight Gandalf on several subjects, but never on this one. It was true. Belladonna Baggins had never backed down from a course of actions she had judged right. She had never been carefree or reckless, not even impulsive. But every step she had taken had been a steady one, and her smile had always reflected her confidence in herself and in her beliefs. Even in her last moments.

_To the very last note of the very last bar, Bilbo._

“You may be right, Gandalf,” Bilbo said, not burdening himself with the now futile civility he had endeavoured to observe for the first half of their conversation, “but you are talking about giving up and I have not even accepted your offer. What I am not giving up is my current position. I am accepted here, or at least tolerated, and it is far more than many other musicians can hope for.”

“Oh I could tell you about many things you could hope and rejoice for in Erebor. For instance, the fact that the post, having been empty for so long, guarantees you a broader autonomy for artistic exploration. Of course you would be under the direct authority of the Opera Master and, obviously, the King, but it is certainly more than what you have here in Bree. Or than what you would ever have in Eriador, as a matter of fact. I have talked to the King about that issue and, you see, he is most willing to give his chance to anyone talented enough, including someone coming from such a distanced and rural country like Eriador, and—”

“Wait a minute,” Bilbo interrupted him, forgetting manners for the benefit of growing panic. “You mean you have talked to the King about this?”

“And how else would I even be able to propose you this position?”

“No, you misunderstood. I meant to ask you if you had already spoken my name to the King himself.”

Gandalf casually adjusted his silver cufflink.

“Your name may have slipped into the conversation at some point—”

“Gandalf!”

“—but you are certainly under no form of commitment. As I said, the King is willing to receive the application of any talented composer. Your name was barely mentioned. Of course, should you accept to travel to Erebor, I shall be glad to send a missive myself to Urdel, my relation with him being extremely cordial...”

_I must have wandered into a dream. And I will wake up. Now. Good heavens, he had to mention my name!_

“I am _very_ pleased to hear it, Gandalf. But my answer stands. I belong in here.”

Gandalf went silent, staring intently at Bilbo, probably in a last attempt to sway his resolve. Bilbo endured his grey gaze, not without a touch of uneasiness.

Eventually, Gandalf dropped his eyes.

“Very well,” he sighed. “I guess I cannot blame you for being attached to your homeland, after all.”

Bilbo should have felt relieved to have Gandalf finally accept his stance, but this wave of restfulness did not come. All he felt instead was this humming inside his head which only left him confused.

“I am afraid I must leave you now, my dear fellow. I am long overdue. If I cannot change your mind on this, I dare hope you will still have me for tea tomorrow?”

“Of course I will. It will be my pleasure.”

Gandalf gave him a last solemn look before shifting back to his more jovial posture.

“In that case, I bid you a very good evening, and am looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow.”

He was already stepping away when Bilbo returned his bow. But he had hardly walked fifteen feet when he suddenly turned back and exclaimed:

“By the way, my dear Bilbo, did I mention that the trend of donning wigs was wearing off in Erebor? Even inside the court!”

Gandalf’s grin could be seen even from that distance, and Bilbo could only smile back at that ultimate effort to persuade him to venture off to unknown lands.

“You did not. And I will not change my mind, but I take note.”

The philosopher shrugged, perhaps satisfied with this amiable answer and waved him off as he finally departed for good, leaving Bilbo alone in the gardens.

“I am not one for adventures,” Bilbo whispered to himself.

But as he went off a few minutes later, a small but very distracting part of his mind could not help wondering about how much his life would be different in Bree if Collorane only stopped hissing at him for his capillary preferences.


End file.
